


the pathway like the back of my hand

by kevystel



Series: light-bringer [5]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Social Media, Texting, bless this show!!!!, emotional honesty, i love how you kinda need to indicate when fics were written bc the canon might leave them behind, there is a lot of texting in this i'm sorry i got carried away, written around episodes 10 - 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8704114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/pseuds/kevystel
Summary: Yuuri’s put on some weight now that they’re in the off-season. He’s very lovely. Viktor wants to turn his head and nuzzle at Yuuri’s soft belly, but Yuuri’s hands are deeply entangled in his hair and Viktor doesn’t want to dislodge them.Yuuri says, ‘You have a lot of time,’ heartbeat deep and steady where Viktor can feel it thrumming through his lungs.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the full-length viktor pov episode killed me & brought me back to life, healthier & stronger  
> here it is, the final part! title from somewhere only we know by keane, and that one social media post is based on [this](http://iguana012.tumblr.com/post/151909932041) (special thanks to aubreyli for sharing thoughts & ideas)  
> [spoken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spoken/pseuds/spoken) did a lovely sketch for this fic [here](http://elaeye.tumblr.com/post/154919516465)!

**Leo de la Iglesia:** bc you guys were roommates in college right?

 **Phichit Chulanont:** no bc i love him the MOST in the WHOLE WORLD and NO ONE can compare

 **You:** I’m sorry???????????

 **Ji Guang Hong:** FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT

 **Ludmila Babicheva:** yuri should be in here!

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** i’m so confused

 **Sara Crispino:** I think she means the other Yuri

 **You:** You’re right I’ll add him

_Viktor Nikiforov added Yuri Plisetsky_

**Yuri Plisetsky:** the fuck

 **Ludmila Babicheva:** hi yurochka! :D

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** goodbye

 **Ji Guang Hong:** …………..hes not leaving tho

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** u shut the fuc

* * *

To tell the truth, this is the first time anybody outside Yakov and Christophe and a few select Russian rinkmates has had Viktor’s number. He’s not used to it. Apparently, Phichit got Viktor’s number at the Beijing restaurant while Viktor was drunk — Phichit Chulanont is seven years younger than Viktor and about one and a half heads shorter, and Viktor may be a little in awe of him.

‘Are you filming this?’ Yuuri asks. He’s covering the ice in relaxed, effortless sweeps, the arc of his movements long and sleek and his cheeks warm with his smile. He slides to a stop in the centre of the rink and turns to look at Viktor. Viktor can almost see the flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks in tolerant surprise.

‘Yes,’ Viktor says, leaning against the barrier. His knees are aching from the morning’s practice. ‘Keep going.’

Instead, Yuuri picks up speed and skates over to where Viktor is. He reddens so easily; his hair falls into his eyes and the tip of his nose is damp with sweat. He waves at Viktor’s phone, his breath coming in low loveable gasps.

‘Hello! Um, I’m skating the new short program Viktor made for me — it’s not perfect yet, but — you’re not uploading the full version, are you?’

‘No, there’s a sixty-second limit on Instagram.’

Yuuri nods. ‘Okay.’ To the camera: ‘I hope you like it! _Spasibo_.’

His lips twitch into a private smile that is only for Viktor, and then he propels himself backwards over the ice and sinks into his starting pose, keeping his eyes on Viktor the whole time. Viktor is charmed. The opening sequence Yuuri has already mastered; he pushes his hair back with one hand and grins and Viktor’s soft laugh is — oh, definitely — picked up by the camera.

The video gains over three thousand views in less than an hour.

* * *

**Phichit Chulanont:** ok viktor nikiforov, since you’re drunk texting i’m gonna take advantage of it to ask you a few questions in private :)

 **You:** yes,,,, sure

 **Phichit Chulanont:** so you’re not coming back to skating? you’re staying with yuuri forever?

 **You:** yeS

 **Phichit Chulanont:** good. that’s good to hear

 **Phichit Chulanont:** out of curiosity, you don’t want to compete against yuuri tho?

 **You:** the only competition yuuri and i are having is over who can be more affectionate

 **Phichit Chulanont:** HAHAHAHA

 **You:** im winning

 **Phichit Chulanont:** bless

* * *

‘He’s taking a shower, _okaasan_ ,’ says Viktor, lying on his stomach and sprawled diagonally across the double bed. People who want to talk to Yuuri usually call Viktor, now, since Viktor charges his phone more regularly and is more likely to pick up the phone in time. ‘Yes, he did well — no, the fall didn’t hurt much, I should know — he ate well at dinner, yes. Shall I tell him…? Okay.’

Behind the bathroom door, the water stops running. Viktor can imagine the heavy heat misting up the mirror and the sides of the cubicle — Yuuri drawing curlicues on the steamed-up glass with his finger, humming lowly in his throat. Viktor rolls to the other side of the bed and plugs the charger cable into his phone. They’re in a pleasantly cool hotel, white curtains fluttering at the window and the carpet — freshly vacuumed — so thick that Viktor’s feet sink into it. Throughout the evening, the corridor fills with the murmur of voices every so often, as other skaters pass by Yuuri and Viktor’s room and neighbouring doors swing open and shut.

‘Your mother called,’ Viktor says when Yuuri steps out of the bathroom, towelling his hair dry. Yuuri nods and looks down at his feet as he wipes them carefully on the rug, before padding across the room to flop onto the bed beside Viktor. His skin’s flushed from the wet, sweltering air of the cubicle and tiny droplets of water cling to his eyelashes, slide down his throat to pool adorably in the curve of his clavicle. Yuuri lets the towel fall from around his neck to crumple in a heap on the pillow. He kicks out his feet comfortably and retrieves his phone, and then his glasses, from the nightstand. Viktor knows for a fact that Yuuri’s muted the groupchat — in fairness, those notifications _never stop going off_ — but Yuuri still smiles as he scrolls through his messages, glasses slipping down his nose.

Viktor’s hand has found its way to the bare skin of Yuuri’s abdomen, sweetly exposed where Yuuri’s borrowed T-shirt rides up. Yuuri curls his fingers over Viktor’s. ‘Did Yuuko or Minako send a message?’

‘Yeah, your mother said to tell you they’re cheering you on.’ Viktor lifts Yuuri’s hand to his lips and kisses the inside of Yuuri’s wrist. Yuuri exhales, long and soft. ‘I’m making tea. Do you want some?’

‘Yes, please,’ Yuuri says, switching from his messages to Instagram without looking up. He must be feeling cold, for he shifts and wriggles underneath the heavy comforter as Viktor gets out of bed. Viktor reaches over to adjust the thermostat on the wall. ‘Not too much jam.’

‘They don’t have nice jam here,’ answers Viktor mournfully. Shaking two sachets out of the complimentary pack, he puts the kettle on to boil and — watching Yuuri observe him closely in the mirror — casually allows his bathrobe to slide off one shoulder. Across the room, Yuuri sighs into the pillow.

Hotels are an experience when they’re filled floor to floor with figure skaters and their coaches. Day and night, the foyer glows with voices calling to each other and drifting upwards to the ceiling; breakfasts are social events. In Boston, Mila keeps posting photos of the view from her hotel room and of herself and Sara, curled up in bed and smiling at the wardrobe mirror. The labels crinkle under Viktor’s fingers. The hum of the kettle is soothing. He turns and is about to speak when there’s a genial knock on the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ Yuuri calls before Viktor can react. Yuuri slides from the bed and hurries to the door, opening it by only a fraction. ‘Chris! Hello, are you looking for…’ Beyond Christophe’s eyeline, Viktor makes a furious cutting motion across his throat with his left hand. ‘Oh, no, I’m sorry, you can’t come in, he’s not well. He’s taking a shit. Please come back later!’

Yuuri slams the door on Christophe’s audible amusement, and leans against the wall for a moment. He closes his eyes and groans. Opens them again — looks at Viktor, bottom lip between his teeth.

‘Yuuri, that was really unconvincing,’ Viktor says, setting out two clean mugs on the counter. The weight of Yuuri’s half-lidded gaze makes something stick in his throat.

Yuuri grimaces. ‘I tried.’ He crosses the room to Viktor’s side and takes Viktor’s face in his hands, bringing their mouths together. Viktor breathes in. He pulls Yuuri swiftly against him, deep and warm and _close_ ; almost at once Yuuri’s lips part and he makes a low, pleased sound, breath whispering against Viktor’s cheek. Viktor lets his hand slip down to curve around Yuuri’s neck, thumb stroking along the groove of Yuuri’s collarbone.

‘You ought to be more patient, Viten’ka,’ Yuuri murmurs. He draws back by a hair’s breadth, their noses still brushing and his eyes alight and fond. Viktor wants to bring him back, to get Yuuri’s mouth on Viktor where it belongs; but these moments are so rare, when Yuuri just stops and considers Viktor appreciatively. Viktor knows, objectively, that he is beautiful — that the cleanly muscled power of his body, the strength which enables him to land all those quads, is barely disguised underneath his clothes and at odds with the harsh delicacy of his features, a kind of _love-me_ prettiness that’s followed him since his teenage years. But he’s used to his own face in the mirror. He’s used to a lot of things about himself.

‘Ah, well, don’t pretend you weren’t waiting for this since —’

Yuuri yanks the robe’s sash out of its knot. Viktor promptly shrugs the bathrobe off his shoulders, and Yuuri follows him down to the bed as they fall. Yuuri’s hands are firm on his shoulders as Yuuri pushes him back, then move instinctively to cradle Viktor’s head even though the bed’s soft enough to make one cry, comfort-greedy as Viktor is. Viktor laughs. Yuuri sits astride him now, cheeks very pink.

‘What were you saying?’

‘Nothing.’

Yuuri grins, appeased, and leans down to nose at the line of Viktor’s throat. His motions are gorgeous. Viktor nips at Yuuri’s earlobe, palms sliding up the back of Yuuri’s shirt where a whiff of Viktor’s own cologne clings to the stolen fabric. After a moment he tilts Yuuri’s face up to his own, fingers gentle, and lifts the glasses off Yuuri’s nose.

‘I like to see you while I’m kissing you,’ Yuuri complains.

‘Well, they’re in the way —’

‘I’ll manage. Give them back.’ He’s different like this, and no less beautiful, dark eyebrows and the satiny line of his nose and cheekbones somehow sharper without the softening effect of his glasses. It’s still intoxicating to have Yuuri’s face so close. Yuuri likes to tease, a little, when he’s in this sort of mood; and Viktor likes Yuuri in general.

Viktor inhales when Yuuri’s glasses bump his nose for the third time.

‘Please get contacts.’

‘I don’t like putting things in my eyes.’

‘Neither do I, and yet here I am, being poked in the eye by your glasses,’ Viktor sighs. He’s distracted when Yuuri starts using tongue.

Yuuri’s eyes snap open as the kettle begins to sing urgently. Viktor sighs again, deeper. Yuuri, always ready to deal with such minor inconveniences, hops off the bed to turn the kettle off, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes. Viktor sits up against the headboard and watches Yuuri’s bruised feet tread gingerly across the length of the carpet. The sight is almost painful. When Yuuri comes back he removes his glasses of his own volition and lays them carefully on the nightstand, and seeing the slow warm brown of Yuuri’s eyes anew is like falling in love all over again. Viktor catches Yuuri’s wrist and pulls him down, smiling, insistent. The air’s very soft on their hot skin. Yuuri climbs willingly into Viktor’s lap, thighs spreading, trusting and pliant and so precious. He rocks his hips against Viktor’s, telegraphing his intentions. Yuuri’s hard too, and the skin is secret and cool where Viktor’s fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers.

‘There’s lube in the bedside drawer.’

‘What? Oh. No,’ Yuuri says, eyes half-closed, teeth sinking into his lip as Viktor’s thumb sweeps across the head of his cock. ‘I brought my own.’

‘You —’ Viktor lets his head fall back against the headboard. ‘Of course you did.’

Yuuri spares Viktor a single glance from under his lowered eyelashes, and leans over the side of the bed to reach into his open suitcase. Viktor tugs Yuuri’s waistband downwards and eases him out of his boxers, fingertips ghosting over the curve of buttocks and the sweet dip between his thighs, rewarded with Yuuri’s murmur of encouragement. The quiet circle of lamplight beside them is so warm. The tube’s new and unopened — Yuuri picks at the plastic casing for a second or two, a small frown creasing his forehead, before he gives up and hands it to Viktor.

‘Open this, please.’

Viktor considers crossing his arms behind his head. He can’t do it. He doesn’t want to take his hands off Yuuri. ‘Do it yourself.’

‘I can’t see shit,’ replies Yuuri acidly. Viktor has to laugh; he can’t help himself. Yuuri nuzzles at the curve of Viktor’s shoulder, his smile stretching bright and slick and golden between their shared skin. ‘ _Please_.’

Yuuri moves like a dancer, even now, even here. The evening colours his eyelashes inky; he squeezes his eyes shut and opens them, shuddering, clenching hard around the press of Viktor’s fingers before he relaxes again. Slow. His mouth looks tender in a way that’s strange, that’s secret and sure, a treasure caught between the two of them — because Yuuri likes Viktor’s fingers, the stretch of them, so different from when he does it himself. He lets Viktor mouth along the velvet of his neck, all irresistible, lightning tripping down their spines. Viktor wants to swallow him; to climb into the space between Yuuri’s ribs and make a nest there.

Yuuri sinks down, lifts off again — sets their rhythm, tentative at first, then bolder, eyes narrowed to a line of liquid gold. The white of the sheets is cold and pure next to the flush spreading down his chest. Viktor thinks about tasting it, so he does. Yuuri — without pausing in the familiar swirling movements of his hips — sets his palm against Viktor’s face and presses the pad of his thumb to Viktor’s mouth, like a command or a caress. He stealthily removes Viktor’s hands from his sides and pins them to the headboard.

Viktor makes a noise of startled protest.

‘You’re too loud,’ says Yuuri disapprovingly. He lays a finger on Viktor’s nose. ‘Be quiet, and don’t move unless I tell you to. Can you do that for me, _kotyonok_?’

‘ _Really?_ ’ says Viktor.

‘I don’t actually know what that means,’ Yuuri admits. Shrewdly, he looks Viktor over, tongue darting out to soothe the cherry-red of his lower lip bitten almost to shreds. The insides of his thighs are achingly damp. ‘But you’re into it.’

‘I am,’ agrees Viktor. He’s weak.

Afterwards, the sheets tangled around their ankles, Yuuri stirs and nudges his nose against Viktor’s shoulder. The walls are humming with quiet, and a faint buzz of excitement drifts inwards from the corridor; there’s a sort of abstract painting hanging above the thermos flask and gift basket, gold-framed, blurring gently in Viktor’s vision. ‘Need to clean up.’

‘Mmm,’ Viktor responds. Yuuri smoothes Viktor’s hair back from his forehead. ‘Later.’

His foot dangles off the edge of the bed. Viktor kicks it back and forth, slowly.

It’s still early in the night by their standards. If they choose to get up, they’ll venture out for an hour or two — Yuuri thinks he’s socially isolated but really isn’t — and maybe stop by Christophe’s room, where Christophe’s nostrils will flare as he detects the scent of Viktor’s cologne on Yuuri. Going out together is nice. Being a power couple of figure skating is nice. Viktor enjoys bragging about Yuuri in front of Yuuri’s competitors, because only Viktor Nikiforov could get away with saying things like ‘When Yuuri wins gold again —’ (‘ _If_ ,’ interrupts Michele, eyebrows rising. Viktor, implacably: ‘ _When_ —’) It’s the most use he’s ever gotten out of his five Grand Prix gold medals.

‘Yakov gave me the shotgun talk today,’ says Yuuri mildly, fingertips tracing careless patterns across Viktor’s shoulderblades.

‘Really?’ Viktor asks. He’s pleasantly surprised. ‘I think I’ve been threatened by the entirety of Japan at this point.’

Yuuri hums and tactfully doesn’t comment on that. ‘I’m not sure whether to be touched or creeped out.’

‘ _Yuuri_ ,’ Viktor says, and Yuuri’s mouth quirks as Viktor drags out the name in a way that lets Yuuri predict what Viktor’s going to say next. ‘There are many more people who care about you than you think.’

His tone may come out a bit more wistful than he intended. He doesn’t mean it.

Yuuri raises himself on one elbow to stare down at Viktor. ‘For someone who always gives me such good advice, you’re pretty dense yourself, aren’t you?’

* * *

**Emil Nekola:** Yeah that’s true! We should add him, why not! :-D

 **You:** ((

 **You:** I feel old

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** that’s bc you are

 **Christophe Giacometti:** HAHAHA

 **You:** Love you too Yurio!!

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** get rekt vitya

 **You:** WOW

_Emil Nekola added Jean-Jacques Leroy_

**Jean-Jacques Leroy:** HELLO YES IT IS I

 **Jean-Jacques Leroy:** I HAVE ARRIVED

 **Jean-Jacques Leroy:** HOW ARE YOU GUYS DOING

 **Jean-Jacques Leroy:** ✧❀○☆✿

 **You:** Who are you

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** who are you

 **Georgi Popovich:** who are you

 **Ludmila Babicheva:** hi jj! :)

 **Sara Crispino:** Hey JJ!

 **Leo de la Iglesia:** what’s up jj :D

 **Christophe Giacometti:** Can someone send the photos we took? I don’t have all of them

 **Phichit Chulanont:** k picspam incoming

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** oh no

 **Phichit Chulanont:** dw i’ll filter them ;)

 **Ji Guang Hong:** WHAT

 **Ji Guang Hong:** WHAT ARE YOU CENSORING

 **Ji Guang Hong:** WHAT HAPPENED IN VANCOUVER THAT I DONT KNOW ABOUT

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** nothing!! i just

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** i look bad in some of them

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** yeah right

 **Phichit Chulanont:** yeah right

 **You:** yeah right

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** VIKTOR

 **You:** ))))))

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** s m h

 **Leo de la Iglesia:** the longest bean

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** the what

 **Ji Guang Hong:** its a meme now

 **Ji Guang Hong:** scroll up

 **Leo de la Iglesia:** nah it’s too far back

 **Leo de la Iglesia:** i’ll screenshot it for you

 **Ludmila Babicheva:** ughugh I’m so tired

 **Sara Crispino:** oh bby :/

 **Sara Crispino:** I’ll rock you to sleep

 **Ludmila Babicheva:** you’ll rock me but will you scissor me

 **Phichit Chulanont:** OOOOOOOH

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** !!!!

 **Christophe Giacometti:** HAHAHAHA

 **Georgi Popovich:** um

 **Jean-Jacques Leroy:** THAT WAS A GOOD LINE A++++

 **Christophe Giacometti:** I’m here for this

 **Phichit Chulanont:** sara what’s your answer I Need 2 Know

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** i didn’t see that. i can’t read

* * *

Helsinki is a pure snowy blue that hurts Viktor’s eyes and leaves Yuuri shivering in the bright sun. The narrow, paved stone streets glisten at night and spill people out into the spreading city, a wonder of hot food and icy fingers. Viktor finds a bar and wanders towards its deep glow, coat securely buttoned and his scarf thick around his neck. Yurio’s underage, so Yakov and Lilia are grateful for the chance to drink while they’re here, and to spend time in each other’s company without feeling awkward; and Viktor has to admit he doesn’t dare get outrageously drunk around Lilia. So it’s all very respectable. Very safe.

‘Well, Vitya,’ Yakov says, hunched over his glass. The wood of the walls and bartop is dark, almost red in places, and it throws odd lights on his craggy features. ‘What are you going to do when he retires?’

Viktor touches his curled fingers to his lips. They’re speaking Russian, which is nice; this is nice. So this is what he’s been missing out on.

‘We haven’t talked about it much. Maybe Yuuri could teach beginner classes to children, and I’d coach them when they got old enough to compete.’

‘Our Yuri?’ says Lilia, returning from the bathroom. Viktor shifts aside to make room for her, since the bar stools are wedged closer together than he’d like. He is seated in between Yakov and Lilia because of course he is.

‘No, no, Vitya’s Yuuri.’

The unintended result of Viktor deliberately using “my Yuuri” around the other Russians is that _everyone_ now calls Yuuri “Vitya’s Yuuri”. In actual fact it is more like the other way around, but Viktor’s not about to object. It makes Yurio smirk in vindication, at any rate.

‘Does he want to teach?’ Lilia asks dubiously.

Viktor shrugs. ‘He’s not going to retire yet, anyway. I don’t think so.’

Lilia answers with a noncommittal sound. Viktor swirls the liquid in his glass and asks, ‘How’s Yurochka?’

Yakov and Lilia both snort, because they know Viktor knows exactly how good Yurio is. Viktor’s gone but he has left Russia’s pride a successor. Poor Georgi never stood a chance. Yakov opens his mouth, then falls silent deferentially when Lilia says (leaping straight to the criticism, for they don’t _need_ to praise Yurio behind his back):

‘You had more emotion at his age, Vitechka.’

‘You should let him choose his own music. He’ll never learn otherwise.’

Lilia sniffs, but it isn’t a derisive sniff. The silence is contemplative; it sinks into their lungs. Viktor sips his vodka and feels neither young nor old.

Yuuri comes by the bar to meet them, arm in arm with Phichit. He’s wearing a newly bought beanie and carrying an armful of shopping bags which Viktor suspects are mostly Phichit’s. Even Phichit doesn’t dare to try coaxing Yakov and Lilia into a selfie, though Viktor can see the idea flash across his face. Together, they’re bright-eyed and smiling, bumping elbows with Viktor on the sidewalk. Viktor falls into step just behind them after a while, and takes Lilia’s handbag so she can retie her bun. By some inexplicable turn of events, Yakov has ended up holding Yuuri and Phichit’s shopping bags. Absolutely no one pretends to be surprised by this.

There’s pop music blaring from a clothing store as they pass, and Phichit and Yuuri break into dance moves in perfect unison as it hits the chorus. Behind them, Viktor laughs.

* * *

**Phichit Chulanont:** viktor!!!

 **You:** Phichit!!!!

 **Phichit Chulanont:** what would you say if i stole yuuri in your sleep and ran off with him to bangkok

 **You:** “cyka blyat”

 **Phichit Chulanont:** k thanks

* * *

At the banquet, Mila greets Viktor joyously. They lean against one of the pillars as she fills him in on Georgi’s new girlfriend, but Viktor’s only half-listening — his eyes follow Yuuri. Celestino trails after Yuuri, ponytail amiably swinging. Viktor’s smile is intimidating enough that no one has ever given him a hard time for rumours flying about the St. Petersburg clubs. He’s very good at ignoring things.

‘Vitya.’ Mila snaps her fingers.

‘Yes,’ Viktor says immediately, handing his empty champagne flute off to a waiter and taking a new one from the proffered tray. ‘You were saying?’

Mila narrows her eyes. Almost everyone Viktor could possibly talk to at this banquet is younger than him. That’s what happens when you hold out against retirement for as long as Viktor did.

‘You have got to expand your inner social circle beyond Yuuri, Viten’ka,’ Mila tells him. ‘It’s not good for you. It’s not good for him. You hear me? Do it for Yuuri, if not yourself.’

 _Here I am, taking advice from an eighteen-year-old,_ Viktor thinks. He takes another sip of his champagne.

* * *

**Christophe Giacometti:** What??

 **Christophe Giacometti:** No, that’s not what it means

 **You:** Oh

 **You:** Google Translate let me down

 **Christophe Giacometti:** HAHA you’re so cute

 **You:** Take that back or I’m deleting your selfies off my phone

 **Christophe Giacometti:** I’M SORRY 

* * *

The video Yurio posted of Viktor dancing to Madonna with Leo and Emil has hit twenty thousand views. Well. They were completely sober. Viktor scrolls further down. He tries zooming in on Otabek’s profile picture, which has been changed to a photo of Otabek piggybacking Yurio. It doesn’t work.

‘It’ll be midday when we touch down in Japan,’ says Yuuri, buckling himself into his seat beside Viktor. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Soak in the hot springs,’ Viktor answers after a moment’s thought. He smiles. ‘Will you be tired?’

‘I’ll sleep on the plane.’ Yuuri bends down to retie his shoelaces, which have come undone during the long walk through the airport terminal. Viktor retrieves the lunch and dinner menu from the seat pocket in front of him. He’s discovered a lot of favourite foods since realising that he can eat whatever he wants. He mentally prepares himself to have his shoulder go completely numb at some point; Yuuri invariably drapes an arm or a leg over Viktor in his sleep, and there’s no reason to think he’ll be any different on the flight.

‘My parents and Mari are away, though. The rest of the day…?’

Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s water bottle, pausing until Yuuri notices and lets him take it with a nod. ‘It’s okay. We’ll do what we’re probably going to do most days once we get our apartment lease.’

Yuuri’s smile spreads like a quiet river. ‘What’s that?’

‘Stay in. Cook dinner.’

Yuuri wrinkles his nose, an unconscious response so small and touchable that Viktor has to reach out and define it with his fingertips. In his clumsy and delightful Russian, Yuuri responds: ‘You cook. I eat.’

‘What!’ says Viktor in Japanese. ‘Do you not like cooking?’

They switch back to English by silent agreement, because it’s getting confusing. ‘I went to college in Detroit. I lived on dollar store ramen for longer than you can imagine,’ Yuuri tells Viktor plaintively. He’s picking up a little of the dramatics from Yurio and Viktor; it helps that all three of them can tell when the other two aren’t being serious. ‘Please cook for me, Viten’ka.’

Viktor sighs. It’s all for show, though: he really doesn’t mind. Yuuri has always done the cleaning for both of them, in any case.

* * *

> **#9:** Jean-Jacques Leroy, Canada
> 
>   * Canada’s “king”
>   * Has not had a single fall this season
>   * Likes very simple, clean choreography and wins points on his crazily impressive jumps
>   * This means that he tends to score way higher on the technical component than the program components
>   * His skating is full of charisma, power and energy although it lacks some artistic qualities
>   * His music is also usually kinda sweet and uplifting. You feel good watching him
>   * He’s one of the most consistent skaters around. Watching JJ skate is always relaxing because you can trust that he’ll NAIL IT
>   * Check out these videos of him skating to [AC/DC](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gDch1p4c_M) and [Queen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JU5LMG3WFBw) because OF COURSE HE WOULD
>   * Still, (if you don’t mind having mini heart-attacks and getting stressed on this skater’s behalf) you might not enjoy watching JJ as much as you’d enjoy…
> 

> 
> **#10:** Katsuki Yuuri, Japan
> 
>   * Everybody’s underdog fave
>   * Keeps messing up in competition, but he is probably the most musical skater in men’s singles hands down
>   * He has great stamina and most notably, a beautiful ability to express the music and emotion in his skating
>   * He’s also known for his good posture and gorgeous step sequences and spins
>   * Actually, don’t watch his competition programs. Watch his exhibition skates. They give you a much better idea of his real caliber as a figure skater
>   * [These](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31nOaXSeqSo) [two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6DFLNa6MBA) are a good place to start (yes, that second one is from the gala right after he crashed and burned at the 2015 GPF – that’s why you can hear the audience cheering so loudly. He got a standing ovation. ~~I~~ _some people_ may have cried)
>   * That being said, his Lohengrin program is iconic
>   * Japan loves him. He’s their ace
>   * Unfortunately, he’ll never be able to match up to…
> 

> 
> **BONUS:** Viktor Nikiforov, Russia
> 
>   * If you don’t know who Viktor Nikiforov is I…have nothing to say to you
>   * Everyone knows Viktor Nikiforov
>   * Everyone I know got into figure skating from watching Viktor Nikiforov
>   * But if you’re just starting out, try [Danse Macabre](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyknBTm_YyM) and [Scheherazade](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2an_WWubKmU). Those are among the Viktor ClassicsTM
>   * DO NOT watch these until after you’ve seen the other skaters’ programs. He will spoil you for every other skater ever lol
>   * He’s the most polished. That’s really all I can say
>   * Most skaters are known for one or two outstanding qualities (beautiful footwork, expressiveness, clean jumps, etc) but Viktor literally has ALL OF THEM
>   * On a first watch though, what you’ll probably notice immediately is 1) he is scarily strong 2) his artistry is incredible
>   * (Also, his programs in 2006–2008 are the funniest because of his death glares after making mistakes)
>     * Viktor, falling: what
>     * Viktor, landing an unplanned quad flip in combination immediately afterwards: F U C K _EVERYTHING_
>     * His poor coach
>   * That trend you see of skaters putting ridiculous numbers of quads in their programs? We have Viktor to thank for that
>   * Apparently doesn’t know who most of the other competitors are 90% of the time
>   * Oh Viktor
>   * We love you anyway ❤❤❤
> 

> 
> _POSTED 2 YEARS AGO_

* * *

**You:** ?

 **You:** But I’m not going

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** what

 **You:** Am I??

♡ **Yuuri** ❤: NO NO NO NO

 **You:** Calm down!!

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** YOURE INVITED

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** wtf phichit

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** didn’t he tell you???

 **You:** No, if you and Phichit are going together

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** NO YOURE COMING WITH US TO BANGKOK

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** THATS THE PLAN

 **You:** Okay!!

 **You:** Do you think he’ll feel like a 3 rd wheel

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** hahahaha as if

♡ **Yuuri** ❤ **:** it’s phichit

* * *

Celestino arrives late, cursing the Bangkok traffic. As he squeezes himself into the seat, Phichit shoots Viktor a significant glance and they say together, ‘ _Ciao ciao_ , Celestino!’ Celestino beams.

Yuuri is tucked away in bed, having dismissed them with a drowsy wave when Phichit told him they were going out to get their caffeine fix. According to Phichit, this is an idea he’s been nursing since his and Yuuri’s college days. They were grabbing a late-night supper and Phichit said, deeply affronted, ‘ _This is not Thai food_ ,’ and now here they are in Bangkok. The chilled sweetness of the coffee is perfect for the day’s muggy heat. Yesterday, they rented a car and spent the afternoon weaving through crowds of tourists as Phichit and Viktor took turns behind the wheel. Yuuri and Celestino were terrified, Phichit learned to curse in Russian, and Viktor and Phichit quickly became fast friends.

‘I’m gonna ask them for the wifi password,’ Phichit announces. Across the table, Celestino is licking his straw clean of foam.

‘No wifi password. I’m in,’ Viktor says after checking. Phichit says _aha!_ and leans around Viktor to snap a perfectly angled selfie. Viktor has learned to flash his most camera-ready smile twice as fast as usual. Then Viktor blinks and asks, ‘Celestino, did you want to be in the photo?’

‘It’s okay. You boys go ahead,’ replies Celestino, unoffended. ‘Phichit, don’t use that filter, it looks like a soft porn movie.’

‘It does not!’

‘He’s right,’ Viktor says in amusement, and Celestino nods vigorously. Phichit takes another long pull on his straw and finishes tapping out a caption, his tongue poking out between his teeth. Then he frowns as something about the photo catches his eye. Viktor takes the phone from Phichit and holds it for him helpfully, keeping the camera function open, as Phichit retouches his eyeliner.

Viktor’s gotten much better at this. Until a short time ago, he had an unconscious tendency to place himself behind Yuuri, or next to Yuuri — to put Yuuri between himself and other people. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable around people he didn’t know well. He likes the person he is when Yuuri’s presence tugs at the corners of his vision.

Now, after a luxurious half-hour of enjoying their freshly brewed drinks as the city sweats outside, they somehow end up talking about Yuuri anyway. Not because Viktor _needs_ it, not because Celestino and Phichit have nothing else to talk about with Viktor, but because Phichit loves Yuuri enough to spill over. Viktor is completely fine with this.

‘Yes, I know about the posters. Five different people have told me about the posters,’ Viktor says. He reaches gratefully for the second glass of iced coffee the waitress slides across the counter. He’s not used to Thailand’s humidity. ‘That’s not even the most embarrassing thing I can think of. I spent a lot of time lurking on Katsuki Yuuri forums after last year’s GPF.’

Phichit’s eyes go wide. ‘ _Tell me more._ ’

Celestino chuckles. ‘Poor Yuuri! Good thing he couldn’t remember the banquet the next morning. If you hadn’t been interested, he would’ve been so embarrassed.’

There is no universe in which Viktor isn’t interested in Yuuri. Thankfully, as Viktor is struggling to phrase this Phichit beats him to it.

‘Don’t talk rubbish.’ Phichit pops an ice cube into his mouth and crunches. He’s busy replying to comments on his Instagram post, thumbs flying over the phone keyboard faster than Viktor can follow. Phichit is fond of Viktor because Viktor lets him livetweet everything. ‘Who’d reject Yuuri?’

‘I don’t actually know how to reject someone,’ says Viktor cheerfully. ‘I’ve never done it before.’

Celestino breaks into a fit of coughing. Phichit reaches over and pounds him on the back — but Celestino looks, for some reason, completely unsurprised.

‘So when you weren’t interested in somebody, you just dated them anyway?’

‘I wasn’t _not_ interested in them,’ Viktor protests.

‘Viktor!’ exclaims Phichit, appalled. ‘It’s an important life skill! Fine, I’ll teach you. You can practise on me!’

‘I am married, and also I think I might make you cry?’ says Viktor.

‘Please. I haven’t cried since I watched one hundred episodes of a K-drama two months ago,’ says Phichit. ‘Okay, imagine…’

* * *

**Ji Guang Hong:** !!!!! ur with leo? where r u

 **Leo de la Iglesia:** shopping! come join us!

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** come come

 **Emil Nekola:** What have you bought so far :-D

_Yuri Plisetsky sent an image_

**Ji Guang Hong:** omg someone save this child

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** im taller than u shithead

 **Phichit Chulanont:** CUTE

 **Kenjiro Minami:** i think they’re beautiful yuri!!!! ʅʕ•ᴥ•ʔʃ

 **Yuri Plisetsky:** thanks

 **Jean-Jacques Leroy:** i want him to look at me the way he looks at leopard prints

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** i want someone who thinks about me the way yurio thinks about leopard prints

 **You:** hi

 **Katsuki Yuuri:** o h

* * *

The first time Kenjiro Minami runs into Viktor in a convenience store, he inhales sharply and turns to his mother. ‘Look! It’s Katsuki Yuuri’s husband!’

‘ _Finally!_ ’ says Viktor. ‘Somebody appreciates my true worth!’

‘He’s just messing with you. Don’t listen to him, Minami,’ Yuuri says, turning bright red as he comes out of the next aisle with their snacks. He nods at Minami and greets Minami’s mother politely, echoed by Viktor a second later. ‘I saw your short program on TV. You did a great job.’

Minami’s cheeks flame and he looks for a moment as though he might implode with joy. Minako says that Minami is the most inspiring example she’s seen of skaters admiring other skaters. As if they haven’t all heard Yuuri recite a list of Viktor’s programs spanning his entire career. In chronological order, followed by alphabetical. While drunk. Viktor, who was also drunk, may have cried a little. Yuuri swings their joined hands back and forth as they walk home, the cold air catching their breath in frosted little puffs.

‘What would you do,’ says Yuuri very quietly, ‘if one day I stopped surprising you?’

Viktor sighs. ‘That wouldn’t change a thing, Yuuri.’

The season’s over, and Viktor has the rest of this year to sleep at home and wander around Hasetsu and _think_. He goes for long runs over the bridge in the early morning, finding his own favourite route, entirely separate from Yuuri’s. He dances with Minako. He serves tea and sake to customers at the inn and charms them with his accented Japanese. He trims his own hair with a pair of sewing scissors from Hiroko’s biscuit tin.

Off-seasons are even more unsettling now that he’s no longer competing. Yuuri’s still training, sure, and Viktor works himself into a blissful frenzy creating new programs; but he feels lost. Even after retiring, all the other options open to Viktor — coaching, choreographing, skating in ice shows to earn money — revolve around skating, a scattering of planets tied to that single burning thread which has consumed Viktor’s life up till now. It’s unnerving how he doesn’t seem to have any other talents. Minako runs a snack bar on the side; Yuuri excels at several different genres of dance. Viktor was about seven or eight the first time his coaches said _yes, in a few years this child will be Russia’s trump card_. And so he was.

He doesn’t know whether he wants to try something entirely new. Viktor is so used to being the best in the field that the thought of starting from scratch — comparing himself to others — making _mistakes_ — makes something churn in his gut. He’s given his life to skating. He’s signed it away. He feels a little like he did when he broke his ankle at twenty-one and had to take the season off; or the time he won three straight competitions on painkillers and suffered quietly through a hip injury until Yakov yanked him off the ice.

It’s stupid. Yuuri is not going to retire for a while yet. There is no shortage of potential students eager to be coached by Viktor Nikiforov, and he can coach until he drops dead. He’s sure of this. He’s just.

He’s just thinking.

But Yuuri frowns at him when Viktor’s sitting on the edge of their bed and dabbing at his feet, which _still_ blister so easily after all these years. ‘What’s the matter, Vitya?’

‘Thinking about you,’ Viktor answers without looking up. He turns around and winks.

Yuuri’s expression goes very flat. He gets onto the bed from the other side and heaves himself across the covers, knees leaving indentations in the mattress. Yuuri is learning Viktor’s language in more ways than one: he slips his arms around Viktor from behind and pulls Viktor’s head against his chest, fingers beginning to comb through Viktor’s hair. Viktor closes his eyes and leans back. He doesn’t — he doesn’t need Yuuri to feel grounded. But it feels. It feels good.

‘Don’t lie to me. What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know what I like to do besides skating,’ Viktor says.

Yuuri’s hand pauses in its repetitive motions, then slides down to cradle Viktor’s cheek. Yuuri kisses the top of his head. Viktor ought to be taking part in exhibitions, in ice shows, charity showcases — and if comments on social media are anything to go by, the public’s clamouring to see him return to the ice. Even though people have stopped pressing him to compete in men’s singles again, now that it’s become clear he doesn’t want to. Even though the surprise phenomenon that is Viktor-and-Yuuri is the subject of many an appreciative post on fansites.

He should be doing it _now_ , while his bones are supple and strong, before there are sharp eyes measuring him against the highlights of his career. But he’s too full of familiarity. The dark, intimate lighting of post-competition galas, the abrupt shift from rivalry to camaraderie, the joy of skating for an audience with no judges and no pressure. Viktor has never felt any pressure. He hasn’t been nervous going onto a rink since he was eighteen.

Yuuri arranges himself so he’s sitting crosslegged and eases Viktor’s head into his lap, his palms smooth and quiet in the fragile sunset. ‘Do you want to go to college?’

Viktor thinks about it. ‘Not particularly.’

Yuuri’s put on some weight now that they’re in the off-season. He’s very lovely. Viktor wants to turn his head and nuzzle at Yuuri’s soft belly, but Yuuri’s hands are deeply entangled in his hair and Viktor doesn’t want to dislodge them. He knows Yuuri is thinking, eyes dark and gentle behind his glasses, but Viktor doesn’t need an answer. Not right now.

All Yuuri says is: ‘You have a lot of time,’ heartbeat deep and steady where Viktor can feel it thrumming through his lungs.

‘I know,’ Viktor agrees. ‘I do.’

* * *

**Georgi Popovich:** happy belated birthday!

 **You:** _typing…_

 **You:** Good luck at the European Championships

 **Georgi Popovich:** thanks. that means a lot.

* * *

‘I’m coming to Japan for Worlds,’ Yurio tells Yuuri over FaceTime, scowling. His hair is now nearly as long as Viktor’s was back in the day. They all know Viktor’s never going to risk pointing that out to Yurio’s face. ‘Can I stay with you guys?’

‘Of course!’ says Yuuri, after exchanging quick glances with Viktor to confirm their answer. ‘Does Otabek need a place to stay, too?’

‘What? No. He’s not coming. He’s going to America.’

Viktor steps into the frame and waggles his fingers at Yurio, who returns the wave begrudgingly after a second’s pause. He reaches over Yuuri for his phone; he needs to set a reminder so he won’t forget. ‘I’ll get the guest room ready.’

* * *

**Christophe Giacometti:** and Sara said “can u imagine viktor’s face when chris had his puberty glo-up”

 **You:** Yes why do you think I cut my hair if not to one-up you

 **Christophe Giacometti:** ohhhhhhh my god

 **You:** Wow!!

 **Christophe Giacometti:** Don’t kinkshame me

 **Christophe Giacometti:** I know your secrets ;)

 **You:** Amazing

 **Christophe Giacometti:** Can I tell her about that time in Marseilles btw

 **You:** Which time in Marseilles

 **You:** OH

 **Christophe Giacometti:** HAHA

 **You:** She wouldn’t even be surprised

 **Christophe Giacometti:** Well, when you cut your hair the Internet exploded

 **Christophe Giacometti:** Those before and after pics captioned “get you a man who can do both” got  >6000 likes and retweets on Twitter

 **Christophe Giacometti:** and I was one of those likes ♡

 **You:** )))) I know

 **You:** I retweeted it

 **Christophe Giacometti:** HAHAHAHAHA

 **Christophe Giacometti:** I WAS EXPECTING THIS

* * *

Yuuri’s cheeks and the soles of his feet are dusted with sand. Makkachin dozes on the mat between them, head on his paws, tucked safely under Viktor’s arm. The scent of the ocean clings to Makkachin’s damp fur and Viktor can taste the salt on his lips. They’ll have to give Makkachin a bath after they get home. But the sun is setting now, and the sky looks so beautiful — the grey-blue of clouds blending into the waves, the rumble of the tide all but drowned out by the seagulls’ cries.

‘The river looked bigger than this, somehow,’ Yuuri says, his tone meditative. ‘In Detroit.’

Viktor draws one knee up to his chest. ‘Did you go exploring in the city?’

Yuuri is silent for a few seconds, eyelashes very dark in the warm golden flush of the sun. ‘Not on my own. Drove to Canada once, with Phichit. He dragged me to a lot of bars and clubs once I hit the legal drinking age.’

Viktor blinks, pauses, and then asks: ‘Isn’t he _younger_ than —’

‘I didn’t question it at the time,’ says Yuuri desperately.

Viktor chuckles. Yuuri reaches over to pet Makkachin too, and places his palm next to Viktor’s on Makkachin’s fur. Viktor glances down at their matching wedding bands: it’s a reflex. He’s not afraid that one day they’ll disappear. He just likes reminding himself that they’re there.

‘What were you like when you were a teenager?’

Viktor thinks for a moment. ‘Very competitive.’

‘Oh. What changed?’

‘There was no point.’

Yuuri shifts, and hugs his knees to his chest as well. Sometimes he puts a finger against his lips while he’s thinking, just like Viktor does; it’s happened once or twice. Yuuri is now slightly more aware of his own fame, his skill, how respected he is — that there were never all that many people who wanted to see him fail — but habits of twenty years aren’t easy to break. Viktor should know. Yuuri sweeps blindly past the rows of trophies on display in his home, like they’re just part of the background for him. Viktor counts them off on his fingers, occasionally, when it’s necessary — Takeshi egging him on from across the dinner table — till Yuuri catches his hands. Pinions his wrists. Kisses his fingertips quiet.

‘What else?’ Yuuri prompts him now, gently.

Viktor taps his chin. ‘I think the paparazzi were a bit scared of me.’

Yuuri snorts. ‘ _That_ hasn’t changed.’

Viktor ducks his head to hide his smile. It thrills him that Yuuri’s noticed. At this point Makkachin stirs, and Viktor lays both hands firmly on that soft fur while Yuuri scratches between Makkachin’s ears till he settles back into sleep. Yuuri is still watching Viktor intently, so Viktor tilts his head, searching for more scraps of memories.

‘I went to gay bars in America, first,’ he tells Yuuri. ‘Not St. Petersburg — that was later. I kept getting carded, though.’

Yuuri’s lips part very slightly. ‘But —’

‘Hmm?’

‘Weren’t you worried that somebody would recognise you?’

‘I introduced myself as Vitya,’ Viktor explains. It makes sense — foreigners wouldn’t readily connect the diminutive with skater Viktor Nikiforov — but Yuuri’s eyes soften. He folds his hand over Viktor’s, their fingers tangling together. Viktor could recognise that touch anywhere. The coolness of Yuuri’s skin, Makkachin’s solid warmth living and breathing underneath them. He breathes in deeply and watches the flame turn to violet on the horizon.

* * *

**Other Yuri:** ok! have fun!!! ^^

 **Other Yuri:** I BELIEVE IN U

 **You:** thnx

 

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** Yurio

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** Did you just send the exact same update to me and Yuuri

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** All those texts were just copied and pasted????

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** I’m shocked

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** I thought I was special

 **You:** ur not

 **You:** get used to it

 

 **Other Yuri:** lol

 **You:** he’s reading this over ur shoulder rn isn’t he

 **You:** shut up

 **Other Yuri:** ok

 

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** ((

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** It’s okay, bc we love you!

 

 **Other Yuri:** we love you yurio!

 **Other Yuri:** wrap up warm!

 

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** Wrap up warm!!!

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** Don’t forget to wear a mask when you go out in the city!

 **You:** stop

 

 **Other Yuri:** don’t forget to wear a mask when you go out in the city!!

 **You:** I GET IT

 **You:** ENOUGH ALREADY

 **Other Yuri:** we’ll be thinking of you daily!

 

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** We’ll be thinking of you daily!!

 **Other Yuri’s Husband:** Can’t wait to see you again!

 

 **Other Yuri:** can’t wait to see you again!!!!

 **You:** blocked ur both blocked never msg me again

* * *

Viktor leaves the rink late into the evening, after Yuuko shoos him out the door with a hand on his sleeve. He’s been giving skating workshops as Hasetsu floods with tourists at this time of year. Children barely older than the triplets, serious teenagers and young couples, whole families. Fans who hang back afterwards to take photos with Viktor; mild-eyed parents who’ve never heard his name before. He has to relearn all his own techniques before he can even think about teaching them to other people from scratch. And it’s not easy to choreograph for students of all ages, some experienced, others complete beginners — but Viktor is fond of a challenge. Minami drops by to help out, sometimes. Minami’s in town for the holidays, since it’s the off-season now; Yuuri took him out for dinner and won’t be back till late tonight.

He turns his jacket collar up against the wind. His soles are tender and bruised from the long hours of creation, the sky turning from pink to gold to gentle blue as Takeshi sips black coffee at the side of the rink. That familiar twinge of discomfort as he walks soothes some unknown ache deep inside him. Ten years after Viktor Nikiforov became a household name in the senior division, his feet still crack and split along the same fault-lines. He crosses the bridge where the old fisherman is absent from his daytime perch, where the little fishing-boats rock in the distance; the water runs long and deep beneath him, lapping at the foot of the bridge. He doesn’t pause to look out over the ocean. To rest his elbows on the railing and listen to the wind whistling across the tops of the waves. He thinks of Lilia standing with her arms crossed, dangling his bronze medal off one finger like it’s nothing to her — Viktor at sixteen, almost crying in pain — Yakov shouting, ‘When you break something on the ice, you _get off the ice_! Don’t just keep on skating!’ The memory makes him smile.

He limps home to Yu-topia, content. He checks the time on his phone; he has a text from Minako, telling him that he left his ballet shoes at her studio yesterday. He’ll pick them up tomorrow. Under the soft outer layer of Viktor’s jacket, his old black practice shirt stretches thin across his chest. It warms him to remember how one girl jumped up and down in triumph after mastering a particularly difficult part of the routine. The sight was foreign to him. Viktor never used to break character until he reached the kiss-and-cry, and sometimes not even then.

He goes in through the inn’s restaurant, nodding at the regulars crowded round the TV. Makkachin knows by heart the sound of Viktor’s key turning in the lock. He barely has time to open the door all the way before he’s greeted by an armful of poodle, pawing excitedly at his thighs.

‘Good day, Vicchan?’ Toshiya asks as Viktor hangs his coat up beside the door.

Viktor says: ‘Yes, very good.’

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to everyone who took the time to follow this series, i really appreciate it!!  
> side note: the title of this series refers to yuuri not viktor lmao


End file.
